International Response
by Sakura Tsukikage
Summary: America's never been hurt like this before. England reacts.


I shouldn't have written this, probably. It's not in my usual style, or anything. But I felt like I had to, kind of. In a way. I couldn't just leave it alone. So . . . I'm sorry, everybody. Please don't hate me for it. I tried my best to be sensitive. This was meant to be something of a companion fic to "How Heroes Fly."

**International Response**

He never expected anything like this to happen.

Of course, no one ever does, do they? Even he, who really should, by now. He's become rather accustomed to it, thanks to the sodding IRA.

It's just—he never thought it would happen to _Alfred_. Arthur realizes with a little jolt of disgust with himself that that actually is because _he's America_, all flashing blue eyes and overconfident spirit charging ahead with that idiotic childish faith in his own . . . his own everything. At that Arthur feels like the most fantastic bleeding idiot to have ever existed, because that means he'd actually started half-believing that drivel Alfred spouts about being a hero, and perhaps he's getting senile or some such thing, because what else could possibly explain that?

Being a hero doesn't mean anything, of course, and even if it did, it wouldn't matter to people like . . . that. A true hero, at least the way Arthur knows Alfred sees it, would never have seen this coming, with the way his eyes are always fixed firmly ahead, on the horizon, on the future, eager and greedy, exuberant and grasping.

_And he never did see it coming, now, did he?_ Arthur asks himself, harsh and grindingly unforgiving, because he hadn't seen it either, and he at least is old enough to know better.

_America's hurt_, he thinks in the next moment. His mind keeps jumping back to the thought, like it can't bear to stay away for too long, even though if there was any way he could shove it away, deny it, he would.

America's hurt. He has to do something.

He goes out to do it, endless minutes spent talking and urging and trying not to think about the full nauseating weight of his concern. There is less argument than he'd expected—his people, his monarch, his ministers, have all felt the attack on America as deep as he, and for once his feelings and thoughts and everything he gets from them aren't at odds, aren't tearing him in different directions when it comes to that damn Yank. His people want to help as much as he does, even if it's not particularly easy for them to admit either, and it's not long at all before he finds himself on the way there, with their blessing, even. To be finally moving makes him feel slightly better, but only a little, because this just isn't the way the world's supposed to be, and it feels like it's been tilted slightly but undeniably off-kilter beneath his feet. It's desperately difficult to find a plane, but he is England, after all.

He finds Alfred not far from the Pentagon, the sight of smoke and fire rising from the building he's seen so many times a visceral shock like a punch to the gut, almost as tearing as seeing the Houses of Parliament on fire, and Arthur's just a little too frantic right at that moment to admonish himself at that thought for letting his boundaries slip.

Alfred is standing back from the activity, but Arthur doubts he's been standing there long; it looks like he's just stopped for a moment, stalled out in the middle of everything. The ache that lurches through Arthur at the sight leaves him gasping with the realization that even he hasn't been anything approaching all right since he heard the news. But now he's well enough again because he's seen Alfred (and isn't that a pathetic realization), looking pale and sick but still moving, even if there's a dazed, shattered haze in the back of his eyes that leaves their usual glitter flat and shallow. In that first second, when he doesn't realize Arthur is there and watching him, Alfred takes off his spectacles and rubs slowly, achingly, at his eyes like every bit of him is sore, pinching the bridge of his nose.

A second later, he covers his eyes completely with his fingers and his shoulders curl forward as he hunches downward into himself, the hand holding the glasses pressing into his stomach. Even as Arthur watches, Alfred's shoulders start to tremble, and with a start of horror Arthur realizes that Alfred's crying; he can hear the watery gulps and hard, gasping sobs.

Even Pearl Harbor hadn't done this to America; it had left him furious, filled with righteous anger that had led him, in the end, to stand firm at England's side with that cocky grin still plastered firmly on his face, but he had never cried over that—Arthur still remembers the uncomplicated outrage in his eyes. Nothing like this.

Poor America, England thinks unwillingly, still so innocent, in some ways. This is nothing to what so many others have suffered, that England has seen and knows all too well, and yet . . . this is something America, strong and young as he is, has never experienced before.

And so of course a variation on that theme is what comes out of his mouth, rather than something warm or worldly-wise or comforting, which is really what Alfred needs right now, and Arthur knows it. "Oh, straighten up, why don't you, it isn't the end of the world," Arthur snaps. "It isn't anything new—I've lost count of the times it's happened to me."

Alfred starts, of course, and rubs that hand quickly over his eyes in a rough, hard swipe before jamming his spectacles back onto his face, a little crooked. "E-England," he rasps out, and his voice sounds thick with smoke and tears, husky and raw like it's been screamed that way. He blinks, and Arthur notices, suddenly, incongruously, the smudges of ash and . . . is that blood on his cheeks? . . . the grime coating his hair. He's absolutely filthy. "What are you doing here?" Alfred asks, his voice blank.

Arthur shrugs, uncomfortable, and looks away. "Where else would I be, you dunce?" he counters. "I'm here to offer you my support."

"Over . . ." Alfred starts, and then gestures helplessly, "all this?" he ends up nearly whispering, waving his hands vaguely around him as if it's too much for him to express with greater clarity or emphasis.

"No, I meant over the matter of your pathetic addiction to fast food," Arthur returns acerbically. "Of course I mean over all this; how stupid are you, anyway?"

"Apparently pretty stupid," Alfred says with a sad little twist of his lips Arthur hasn't seen since the Vietnam War. "They even warned me, you know—the CIA—but I didn't listen."

"Do you ever?" Arthur can't stop the words in time, and they slip out from between his lips. It's a low blow, it's ungentlemanly, below the belt, and he wishes immediately that he'd have said something else, anything else just then.

"I'm listening now," Alfred whispers, not even trying to return the hit, and Arthur feels a sick knot of guilt twist together in his stomach, tighten his throat. Alfred's eyes are big and fractured and wounded behind his spectacles. "I can hear them, praying, crying, screaming." His voice wavers thickly, but he seems to firm it with an effort of will. "I can't stop listening, you know?" He looks to Arthur desperately, as if for confirmation.

"I don't know," Arthur snaps, his throat closing up at that look on Alfred's face, because somehow he'd thought that he'd never see America looking like that, "how the bloody hell should I know what you're feeling, America?"

"Oh," Alfred says, and gives a short little humorless chuckle, "yeah." Arthur wants so badly for him to answer back with something cheeky that it feels like he can hardly breathe. But instead Alfred just says, "Guess so," lamely. "Um," he says then. "Thanks and all, England, but I'm really pretty busy, so I gotta go."

Arthur feels a flare of panic. He can't let Alfred go off on his own looking like this. There are still tears clumping his eyelashes together, and his smile is without a doubt the most pathetic effort he's ever seen. "What are you talking about?" he demands. "You're not fit for company. Are you truly intending to go out like that among the public?"

Alfred just looks at him, uncomprehendingly. "Huh?" he says, his voice empty and dull. "Like what?"

Arthur gestures and stops because of how close it comes to him merely flailing his hands about wildly. "There's dust all over you," he says, "there's dirt in your hair," because he isn't going to mention the smudges of blood and soot and ash, and Alfred reaches up to run his hands through the tousled gold strands white with powdery dust. His hands come away coated with it, and Arthur coughs at the grainy powder freed to float around them. He chokes it off in his throat because _Alfred's_ not coughing, not even from the smell of smoke in the air. "You're not presentable in the least," he finishes. "Not that that's much of a change for you, but it's the principle of the thing, America."

"I haven't had time to clean up yet," Alfred says distantly. "I don't know where to start, anyway." His eyes come back up to look at Arthur. "I need to, though," he said. "Everybody's looking at me, huh?" He reaches up beneath his spectacles and swipes quickly, violently, at his eyes again. "I'm a mess, you're right, I need to—to get my act together!"

"It's all right," Arthur finds himself saying quickly, because Alfred's wiping away tears again, right in _front_ of him, and that rather makes him want to hit something. If Alfred can't put his game face on for merry old England, he's too raw and too hurt to do it for anyone. "You have some time."

"But it's not all right," Alfred says raggedly, as if his throat hurts. "I'm not going to let them do this to me. I'm stronger than this. I'm going show them all that—that they can't beat me, and this isn't enough to keep me down! I'm a hero, after all!" It sounds like he's trying to convince himself, like he doesn't quite believe it anymore, and that makes Arthur's eyes prickle and sting—but surely that's just the acrid clouds of smoke, it's a fucking madhouse around here. "I have to show everyone that we're going to be fine," Alfred finishes, his voice shaking, just a little.

The duty of a nation, Arthur thinks, to be strong so that his people want to be, and in that moment he's almost proud of Alfred. "Of course you're going to be fine," he says, making his voice almost dismissive with his confidence rather than letting it be as ardent and aching as his heart might—would, but he won't admit that, not entirely—prefer. He steps forward and claps his hand against Alfred's shoulder in a way even he recognizes as stiff and rather awkward. He can't seem to make it any more natural.

Alfred makes a helpless, strangled, _hurting_ noise in the back of his throat and tension shudders through him at Arthur's touch, his shoulders flinching forward, away. Arthur snatches his hand back, feeling like he's been burned, even though Alfred had been cold, trembling with it, beneath his hand. "Fucking hell—" he starts before he can think.

Alfred takes a deep breath, shuddering, and hunches his shoulders further inward. His gaze won't quite meet Arthur's even when he looks over at him, smiling a little shamefacedly, and that is so unlike America that it hurts deep in Arthur's chest.

"That's where—" Arthur says before he can examine the words "—where they hurt you. Damn it all, America, can't you even be arsed to take care of yourself properly?" He knows in an instant that the wounds are still raw, open and bleeding, under that ridiculous jacket. It hasn't even been a day—

"I haven't had time," Alfred says, pained, with a sad, tentative sort of laugh, sheepish and awkward. "You know, I've been busy, just got in from New York—" oh, Christ God, Arthur thinks, _New York_, oh, God, _Alfred_ "—but it'll be fine, I'm strong, y'know." His voice is wavering—_wavering_—and his eyes are so—so open, with that stubborn determination that's altogether too familiar and the pain he isn't managing to hide written all over them, and Arthur doesn't know what to do at that look, or in response to that tone, or any of this, and why did he even come, America has to know how he feels, that England will support him through this—

_He needs to know it's not mere talk_, Arthur tells himself fiercely, _needs to see it, hear it in person, from you, and talking's never gotten you far with him, has it?_ His hands reach out without his instruction and settle on Alfred's shoulders to tug at the open collar of his jacket, sliding his fingers under the neck and pushing ineffectually. "Let me see," he says, his voice gruff and impatient even to his own ears, "you'll just bollocks it up, you're absolute crap at taking care of yourself."

"Hey!" Alfred says, his cheeks flushing a little with annoyance, and it's the first color that's been in his face since Arthur arrived. "I can take care of myself just fine. You're the one who can't take care of himself, okay?" But he doesn't push Arthur away, doesn't even try to duck out from under his hands. He lifts his own, in fact, as if to help Arthur with the jacket, but then winces and lets them fall, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other and rubbing his hands ineffectually against his torn, dusty khakis. Standing still has never been Alfred's strong point, and he looks like he doesn't quite know what to do with himself.

"I'm not the one all bloodied up right now," Arthur says, but he feels like the words come out softer than he'd meant them to, almost affectionate. He can feel his cheeks heat, but he refuses to acknowledge his own embarrassment. Maybe America hasn't noticed; he's completely dense, after all, never thinks about anything but himself—

"It'll heal," Alfred says, a little uncertainly. "Because I'm awesome, yeah? None of this changes that." Arthur can hear the doubt in his tone, the unspoken appeal for reassurance, and he aches, because Alfred never doubts himself. It'd be good for him, to be less convinced of his own infallibility, he thinks, he's always thought, but he never wanted to see it happen like this.

"This certainly isn't enough to change anything about you," Arthur huffs as he maneuvers the jacket down over Alfred's shoulders in a careful balancing act that doesn't involve too much of his hands being pressed up against Alfred's shoulders and back and arms. There are little shaking tremors still passing through Alfred's body under his hands, and he can feel his uneven breathing; he's still more of a mess than he wants Arthur to know. Well, of course. It's what any of them would do, trying to appear strong, struggling to hide his own weakness. "Even if your supposed status as 'awesome' is just that—supposed, and only in your own head."

Alfred smiles crookedly, half-hearted. "Oh, come on," he says. "You know you love me—"

Arthur scoffs loudly. "Don't be ridiculous," he says, the words leaving his mouth just a little too quickly. He loosens Alfred's tie and pulls it off after tossing the jacket over his own shoulder. "I know no such thing."

"What're you doing here then?" It's mild and teasing, but Alfred still sounds hollow and tentative, like he's missing something on the inside, and his usual breezy confidence is gone.

"Someone has to look after you occasionally," he grumbles. "I've got used to it, so it might as well be me."

His concern for Alfred deepens when he doesn't protest that beyond a mild, "Hey, England," when he'd expected yet another rant on the importance of his freedom and how he'd saved England in the past (because heroes don't need help from anyone, what a load of rubbish).

Alfred chuckles a little after a moment. "You're taking off my shirt," he says, "on the Pentagon lawn. What if my boss comes by?"

"I'll tell him to take a good look at what's happened to you," Arthur grits out. The shirt is sticking to Alfred's back and to his side with blood, streaked with sweat and dirt. "How did you manage to get yourself this filthy?"

He immediately regrets the question, even before Alfred flinches. "It was . . . I wasn't even thinking about it," he says, his voice distant. "It stung, all over, it hurt, and I knew there were people in there, I could feel it, and I had to . . . I needed to help them. I tried, but then the Pentagon was burning, it was like they'd set me on fire—" He stops, makes a small choking sort of sound.

Arthur concentrates on getting the shirt off without hurting Alfred too much. Alfred, though, doesn't seem to want to cooperate. He keeps moving, getting his arms tangled up with the sleeves and putting himself in Arthur's way. Typical, Arthur thinks.

He's halfway down Alfred's shirt with the buttons when Alfred suddenly stops moving and says, in a low voice that sounds choked and small, "I'm sorry, England."

"Sorry?" Arthur demands, and in his shock his voice comes out louder than he'd have liked. "What in God's name do you have to be sorry about?"

"They hurt you, too." Alfred raises his head to look at him, and his dusty hair is falling into his eyes and his spectacles are still crooked and there are fresh tears clinging to his eyelashes; they're close enough that Arthur could count them if he wanted to. "It's my fault. I—there were some of your people in there. And Kiku's, and . . . so many others. You all came to me because I'm awesome, and I'm strong, and I was supposed to be able to protect everyone. And I failed you. Heroes shouldn't fail. I'm sorry, England. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough. I—I'm really sorry." He blinks his eyes shut while Arthur is still standing there, frozen.

_Oh, America_, Arthur thinks, helplessly, and it's a moment before he can think anything else. "Don't worry over me," he says then, his voice gone low and gruff. "It wasn't . . . wasn't much." What's happened to _Alfred_ isn't much compared to some of the things he's seen—Poland, after the war, Kiku fresh from Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and that was Alfred's doing, and centuries back before any of that—but it's the first time it's happened to Alfred, like this anyway. It's struck deep, he can see it, and that hurts, more than the sting Arthur himself felt when it happened, to see Alfred confused and reeling and still so hurt. Arthur wonders how anyone can be so clueless and . . . stubbornly naïve. He reaches out and straightens Alfred's spectacles, settling them back over one ear and balancing them over his nose. There's blood in Alfred's hair, beneath the dirt.

"I wanted—I want—to be able to protect you," Alfred is saying. "And everyone else." His next words are anguished and thick. "I—I just don't get it. Why do they hate me so much? How can they hate _me_? Everyone loves me! I'm awesome!"

_And ridiculously domineering, and thoughtless, and obnoxiously loud, and you never listen to anyone but yourself_, Arthur thinks. He should know; he puts up with it the most except for maybe Kiku. The reasons behind this attack aren't any mystery to him, loath as he is to say it aloud. "It's part of becoming as powerful as you have, America," he says instead of any of it, and that's true, too. "It's part of . . ." he swallows hard ". . . growing up. You can't be strong without someone resenting you for it. Not everyone can love you. Some people are going to hate you."

"But why?" Alfred demands too loudly, in blatant distress, and grabs the front of Arthur's jumper. He drags him nearly off his feet. Forgetting his own strength again—Arthur has to brace himself against Alfred's chest so as not be knocked right into him. Alfred doesn't seem to notice. "I'm just trying to help them! I just want to help everyone. Why would they hate me for that?"

Arthur shrugs out of Alfred's grip—he lets him go surprisingly easily, his hands falling to his sides limp—and takes a moment to catch his breath. "Not everyone's going to see it that way," he says. "It's something you have to learn to deal with." Alfred looks horrified and disbelieving and deeply wounded. Arthur's obviously managed to upset him even more. He should have known better than to think he'd be able to comfort him at all, Arthur thinks, with a healthy share of derision directed inward. It's no matter that it's the truth. It's not what Alfred wants to hear right now.

"Why'd they try and hurt me?" Alfred says again, mournfully, staring down at his dirty, dusty hands, and Arthur sighs. _Because you're an overbearing twat sometimes_, he thinks, but even though he'd normally say it without even hesitating, he could never do that to Alfred now. Instead he reaches up—why does Alfred having to be so bleeding tall—and knocks two knuckles against his chin, tilting it upward.

"Show them you're stronger than this, eh, America?" he says. "You don't stare down at your boots for anyone."

Alfred blinks and looks down at him, his eyes finally focusing on something. Arthur feels his cheeks start to heat for absolutely no good reason, because there's no reason for him to be embarrassed simply over telling America to buck up and keep a stiff upper lip, and turns his attention back to Alfred's shirt.

"I've brought a first aid kit," he says, and he certainly isn't babbling in the least. "It isn't much, but it should be better than nothing until you can get yourself back in order, assuming you can manage that much, and the others pitch in."

"You didn't have to—you don't—" Alfred starts, but Arthur scoffs and cuts him off.

"Bollocks," he says. "You've done the same, or don't you remember, you ass?" Sudden flashes of memory, Alfred's hand closing around his elbow and pulling him back to his feet in the ruins of London, his brash loud voice cutting through the ringing in Arthur's ears from the bombs, _Sorry I'm late, old man, but we'll really get this party started now_, Alfred's hands surprisingly tender against burns and bruises left by the Blitz. There have been times before and since, but none so clear in his memory as then. _Let's show those bastards . . . ._

Alfred merely looks at him, as if he can't quite think why Arthur would bother. His self-absorption never fails to surprise Arthur—he never expects help just as he never expects criticism. Arthur finishes with the shirt and sets about peeling it back from Alfred's bloodied side and back, over his arms. Alfred sets his jaw and sucks in his breath from between gritted teeth, and Arthur swears to himself.

Alfred bruises easily—not his ego, which is virtually invincible, but his skin. He knows that well, having given the younger nation plenty of bruises himself (a night in the rain he refuses to think about), and it's never as serious as it looks, but it still wrenches at something in Arthur's stomach to see the spreading purpling bruises and the deep angry gash along his side, so that for a moment he feels as if Alfred is his colony again and these injuries seeping blood all down that bruised side have hurt him too, and he'll kill anyone who dares to do this to Alfred, to both of them. _Be reasonable_, he tells himself a moment later. _Can't go losing your head, he does that enough all on his own. Someone's got to be the sensible one around here._

Besides, it's not like that anymore, and you'd do well to remember that.

The skin around the injury is blistered a little, from burns, but the wound itself isn't deep. Probably hurts like fucking hell, though, the little ones always do. "Here," he says, "let me—" and then he's digging out the first aid kit and ripping it open and taking care to keep his hands quick and cool and efficient at Alfred's skin, antiseptic wipes and cream and gauze and tape. Alfred's still bleeding, so he puts pressure on the wound and worries to himself, a thousand jumbled concerns he won't, can't, say aloud. "Ow," Alfred says, and Arthur freezes. With his hands stilled against Alfred's ribs he can feel the stuttering, trembling breaths catching in his chest, the rapid drumming of his heart tripping up and stumbling, beating out a hasty rhythm under his skin.

"My apologies," he says, his voice gone stiff with his concern.

"No," Alfred says. "S'okay. Just a little—sore—" his breath hitches, and catches, as if over a sob, and then he evens it out again, and Arthur can see his fists relax at the edge of his vision "—there, is all."

"Sorry," Arthur says. "But that should do for a bit."

"Thanks," Alfred says. "You're—uh—really good at this." He sounds vaguely surprised. Prat. Honestly. Does he ever pay attention?

"I should be," Arthur says. "Did it on myself often enough a few years back."

"Huh?" is Alfred's brilliant response, and Arthur sighs. No use getting himself in a bother over it. Alfred is Alfred is America, after all.

"Never mind," he says. "Turn round and I'll do the rest." Alfred obeys, a touch slowly but with no argument, and Arthur is absurdly gratified by that. Alfred's left shoulder is a bloodied, dirty mess, like someone drove something rough and jagged into it, a bit deeper than the other and also dripping slowly welling blood down his back, with gravel and dust turning the edges of the wound black. Arthur takes a deep breath that's just a trifle shaky, wipes his hands with disinfectant, and sets about washing the gravel out, piece by piece. Alfred's back shudders under the touch of his hands. "This'll be New York, then," Arthur says, doing his best to make the words gentle. Over the back of Alfred's left shoulder, mirroring his heart.

Alfred nods. "I can do most of the clean-up later," he says. "I'll get all that, I'll fix it."

"I would rather do it right the first time," Arthur says. "And it's your shoulder, you bleeding idiot, how are you going to reach?"

"I'll think of something. Something . . . awesome," Alfred takes a deep breath as Arthur starts over the shoulder with disinfectant.

"Something stupid, more like," Arthur says. _Other nations have suffered more_, he wants to say, and _you're not the first_, and _What about me? _because he still remembers the nineties and Ireland, like cigarette butts being pressed into his skin off and on, constantly, and the Blitz, and so many things. But America is used to being the protector, the hero who swoops in at the end in his stupid plane at the last moment, and in his head he's loved and adored by everyone, and Arthur does understand that it's something of a shock, he does. _Was I ever that thick?_ he wonders, but he knows he was almost as bad once. He remembers America before he was the United States of, and India, much later, and so many others, and his own aching, indignant shock that they didn't _want him_ anymore. Good lord, isn't that a horrifying thought, that America's grown up enough to be experiencing the things Arthur's gone through. But he is, he has to admit that; Alfred's grown all too quickly. He smoothes the bandages over Alfred's shoulder and makes sure the adhesive tape is sticking to his skin properly. "There," he says. "That's sorted."

"It's not," Alfred says, dull and slow, "you know. Not at all."

"It's a start, anyway," Arthur says, stung, because he is trying.

Alfred takes a long, hiccoughing breath. "Not really," he replies, and that maybe hurts more than it should. "Thanks, though," Alfred says, turning around, "really, England, thanks, I couldn't have done that—I mean, I could have, I just . . . it helped. It did. But, I mean—it's important for me to . . . to be strong. To get myself back together. They—my people—are doing most of the work, I know, but that just makes me want to—I'm so proud of them," he says, his voice thick and hoarse. "They're so brave and—and—" he waves his hands a little helplessly through the air around him. "You know, right? I keep thinking that this is it, and then they're still there with me."

Arthur nods, because he does know, and he hands Alfred his filthy shirt again, because hideous as it is, there isn't another for him to wear.

Alfred just holds it. His eyes have gone unfocused again, drawn inward. "I—" he says and stops. A muscle in his jaw tenses and flickers. ""I can't just stay here," he starts again. "I've got to do something. I—"

"You what?" Arthur demands. "What are you going to do?" His hand closes over Alfred's jacket and tie over his own shoulder, and he feels absurd, as if he's holding them hostage to ensure Alfred's answer.

Alfred takes a deep, ragged, hitching breath. "I'm going to get them," he says. "I'm going to go after them and I'm going to find them and I'm going to make them pay, goddamnit. You can't do this to me, to Americans, and get away with it." He smacks his fist into one palm, and the sound is loud, almost loud enough to make Arthur jump with the suddenness of it. His eyes slide over and lock with Arthur's and they're bright and hot and feverish with grief and anger. "I'm gonna show 'em that," he says. "And I'm not going to stop. I can't just let them . . . can't let them get away with this!" And his voice is high and much too loud and verging on the edge of hysterical.

Arthur knows what he should say, and maybe it's better if he tries to talk him down. He knows that Francis would try, if he were here, and it's what Matthew would want him to do. Matthew, who must be so worried for his brother, and who'll probably be here any minute, as soon as he can manage, or maybe he's already been.

Alfred's wild gaze zeroes in on Arthur. "You'll support me, right, England?" he says. "Right? You came to help me—you came to see me—and you know what I mean. They came here and they hurt me, they really did hurt me, and—" His eyes are blue-hot and flashing with rage, and his breath is coming hard and fast and his chest is heaving a little.

That rage touches a chord in Arthur. He knows how Alfred feels. He knows because he feels the same way, and it's true, Alfred's right; they can't let this go without a reprisal, he _will not_. He won't ever allow anyone to lash out at Alfred and get away with it. Not while there's still breath in his body and green and fertile land on Britain's shores. It takes strength to be a world power, if anyone would know that it's Arthur. And he's proud of the strength he can see in Alfred.

He doesn't think he _could_ stand idly by, let someone hurt Alfred like this and walk away.

"England?" Alfred says again, his voice breaking into Arthur's thoughts. "You're with me?" He's smiling again, but it's not a happy smile, not his usual bright and sunny and cheerfully exuberant grin, it's a furious, teeth-bared, feral smile, the kind Arthur had seen him point at Ivan too many times to count during the Cold War. It's not directed at Arthur, it's meant for somewhere else entirely, and Arthur thinks, _there is no way this is going to end well_, because it isn't a country they're going after, it's a loose grouping together of other people and there are no symbols to fight or trails to follow and he _knows_ how Alfred is and how he's going to get, probably better than anyone.

Arthur takes the dirty shirt out of Alfred's hand where he's bunched it up in a ball and shakes it out rather than answer. He slips it on over Alfred's arms and shoulders and starts doing up the buttons.

Smoke, rising from the building behind them, blood oozing slowly from Alfred's shoulder down the lines of his spine. Alfred's tears and the wrenching disbelief in his tone and the doubt and the fear hiding behind the anger. Rubble in New York City and dust coating Alfred's hair.

Bombs in London and a big hand at his elbow, gripping firmly and steadying him when he'd wobbled on his feet and nearly sprawled in the rubble all over again. _We'll take them on together_, Alfred had said, _and just let them see if they can stop us_.

He finishes with the buttons, loops Alfred's tie loosely around his throat, and hands him his jacket. "England," Alfred says again, and his tone is almost, not quite, frantic. He sounds a little mad, fifty different emotions all there in his voice at once, because, he thinks, because Alfred's like that. "You are with me, right? You have my back, right? I mean, I'll do what I want, whether or not you do, or you are, or whatever, and I don't care what you decide, but you won't make me do it alone, will you, England?"

Arthur looks up at him and swallows hard. Alfred looks scattered and frantic and scared beneath the anger, his eyes too big in his face. He looks like he needs something, someone, to steady him.

And Arthur—Arthur wants to rip someone apart, wants to tear someone limb from limb, wants there to be gushing blood and violence, he feels it somewhere deep within himself at that desperation on Alfred's face, spilling out into him so that his hands are trembling with it. He wants someone to pay for this. He was an empire, after all. He knows what all this means. He knows how to repay this sort of attack, this kind of insult. He wants to see America make them pay, wants to be there when he does, wants to help him do it. He doesn't care what anyone else will say, doesn't even care if this is a bad idea, a terrible idea, if he's maybe gone a little mad to even be considering it, to be reveling in that barely constrained rage in Alfred's tone because it mirrors what he feels, and how it gives him permission to let it happen. "I'm with you," he says at once. "I'm beside you. Wherever you go, America. Whatever you decide to do. I'll stand beside you to get these bastards. I'm with you."

Alfred grins, like he did before, wild and dangerous, and Arthur holds out his hand so they can shake on it. Alfred takes his hand and clasps it, his fingers broad and square and cold, but before Arthur can drop his hand and distance himself again, Alfred pulls him forward and into a quick, tight hug, one arm around his back, even though he's wincing at the pull on his injuries even as he does it. His shaking has stopped, mostly, but his arm is tight around Arthur, pressing them close just for that moment, as if he needs it, and Arthur can feel the beating of his heart. Then he drops his arm, and Arthur stumbles a little without it, and opens his mouth to say something about being manhandled unexpectedly by overgrown upstart excuses for countries, but before he can Alfred says, "Thanks. Just . . . thanks, England."

Arthur closes his mouth and then opens it again. "Think nothing of it," he finally says. "We are allies, after all."

Finis.

I don't know. I'm not sure what possessed me to write this. I think it's just that England response to 9/11 got me very emotional at the time, and. Well. Yes. I don't know. And there are a lot of references to the IRA, with Britain. Yeah.


End file.
